The Penguin Dance

Saturday, 27 May 2017

Art is no food,
But the fire underneath.
Art rests on retina
as an inverted image
of misery.
Art is glucose to the brain
and credit to the soul.
Art is the fear
of creating a little too much.
It is a refreshment, served
at the dinner of machines.
Art never means you had time,
but that you reflected on time.
Art is long,
A by-product of half fed stomach,
or in the quest to beat death.
Art is free,
Amid the hurricanes of exhaustion.
Art is the beloved, air lives for...
It is a secret ingredient to God.

Tuesday, 28 February 2017

Power to the language,
the language of age.
The highs and the lows
The show on the stage.
Soft, subtle but deep
Message that it holds
Wounds it does bestow
Ears that it hits
to make bleed, aflow.
A language learnt with age
about age.
What an inescapable cage
this course of time
Living under the hope
Of memory so human
of miracles so awaited
of deeds so unrewarding
of death so imminent.
A thick book of regrets
Ever written by a hero.

From toothful lies
To the toothless truths
All, ever has been spoken
The language of age.

With you goes away my will to write;
No poem, no wish to suffer in dim light
Old days seem so old as if a previous life
New days, so new-a rewardful afterlife
No more do I walk with a wish to be loved
No more do I talk with a fear of being cuffed
Through you have I been blessed with a cause
That race i was in, beautifully has a pause.

Saturday, 16 July 2016

Dear step on the ladder to heavens!
You ought not be stepped upon
And touched by the sole of the feet
Sit up on the curve of the lashes
And be the crownly pride of my head
Dear step on the ladder to heavens!
Step on my back and grow as wings
Be trampoline to my baby dreams
And help them jump to the realities divine.